Paroxysmal Pedagogy

How can I be an English teacher when I don’t believe in poetry anymore — at least not in the form most conceive it? What if I believe a poem should never quite know where it’s going until it gets there? That lines should flow together without suffering the violence of an end-stopped break that interrupts the pace and wastes so much space where words should be? And what if I lie and say that a poem could ever satisfy the intractable demands of meaning and truth? What if all I can do is undermine the very line that you read as I write it?